The Alexia Chronicles

When his dad rang off a call in which his end of the conversation began, “My eighteen-year-old Zebulon needs someone to help him make a career decision that’s outside my range,” Zeb’s attention showed open-eyed. The rest of what he heard – especially allusions to his time with the judge and outright statements of how what he learned brought thoughts about a future in “a practice like yours” – made him sweat uneasily.

“If you’ll see him for an hour or so, as a friend of a friend, Tony, in Capital City, suggested you would, then…. Oh? Tony already called you? That’s nice….Sure, Zeb’s got his driver’s license but I was thinking of driving him down there myself….It’s better if I’m not there?...Okay, I will send him, but he’s kind of shy….I’ll tell him he’s welcome and you’ll take good care of him…. No, he ain’t fat….How can I thank you?...You’re happy to help? Gosh, that’s great….Thank you so much.”

Jebediah F. put down the landline telephone and moved to sit beside his son on the divan. A hand on the lad’s knee was reassuring.

“Zeb, I don’t rightly know what to do with you but I want to be fair. There’s a preacher – he’s in retirement – down in Capital City, Rev. Abraham Falconer, who’ll counsel you about the things you’re so interested in. It’s set up for two o’clock tomorrow. You help me with chores in the morning, we’ll eat some lunch, and I’ll let you take the pick-up. The man’s real friendly-like and wants to meet you. There’s no charge, so we can afford the gas. You just get on the road by four o’clock to beat the traffic and you’ll be home for supper.”

Zeb looked at the directions his father had written out and saw the telephone number to call if he had a problem. He swallowed hard. “Dad, you mean I just show up and knock on the door?”

“Yep. It’ll be fine. You’ll see. Just mind your manners like a good boy.”

*

I’m not fine, Zeb thought as he parked at the address and looked for numbers on the apartment building. His nerves were working overtime as he found it necessary to walk around the building before he found the correct door. He lifted the brass knocker. The door flew open.

“You’re on time,” the big man with the big smile exclaimed in a big voice. “Come right in and let me have a look at you, Zebulon. You seem a fine young man.” The handshake tugged him through the doorway and a big arm went around him encouragingly.

Before he could reply, the arm pushed him toward the largest overstuffed sofa he had ever seen. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll get you a drink. Or do you need the restroom after your drive? It’s through there.”

Zeb chose to sit. Maroon brocade was an upholstery fabric he had never seen. The room had plush carpeting that felt soft under his shoe. He wriggled into place, the cushion conforming to him “like fog or something” – he later recounted to his dad. Pretty paintings on the wall – light colors and fuzzy – had gold frames all fancy.

He must be rich.

“Here, I’ve brought us some real cold orange juice,” Falconer said, handing over a large cut-glass tumbler filled nearly to the brim before sitting, with one of his own, less full, in an arm chair opposite. “And here’s a napkin for you so you don’t get anything on the table there when you are done. On a day like this, better drink slowly,” he said, sipping. “Say, would you like a cookie?”

Not yet having spoken, Zeb managed, “Yes, sir,” and took a sip.

Delicious. Fresh squeezed – has to be.

As the man walked away toward the kitchen, his back struck Zeb as broad and his walk muscular – like his dad’s. From the distance came, “I’m glad you drove down. It’s been a while since I met one of Judge Clarence’s boys. He was a great man, you know. Lucky you had a year with him.”

A blush greeted Falconer as he handed over not a cookie but a plate of chocolate-covered orange peels. “These are much better with OJ than regular cookies. Ever had one?”

“No, sir.” One tentative nibble and Zeb’s mouth watered. He practically gobbled down the delicacy – and took a swig from his glass.

“Easy there, Zeb. They’re for you. Just don’t rush. Enjoy. Feel how the chocolate coats your whole mouth. Let its aroma travel around your nose. Chew slowly and swallow the same way. That’s the way. Now tell me, if you don’t mind, what’s troubling your father – because I suspect that’s what’s causing you your problem.”

Something loosened Zeb’s tongue to blurt, “I haven’t seen the Light since I was with old Judge Clarence. Nothing’s the same. I’m not fit for farming. I know it now. That’s what my dad wants, though. And for me to marry like he did and have a family – well, me – to carry on. I really…. I really want…to somehow carry on, like, uh, the judge’s good work.” Zeb’s teen face seemed to crinkle.

Falconer said nothing. He watched the boy shun forming tears by gulping more his glass of juice. Vodka’s getting to him, he smiled inwardly. It won’t be long now.

“Son, it’s a tough road. I’ve been on it across several State lines and I know. What makes you think you’re cut out for such challenging work? Are you tough enough?”

“Tough?” Zeb’s voice shrank.

Falconer’s firm hand on his shoulder and disarming smile near Zeb’s had a funny effect, especially when the experienced voice said quietly, “I’ll make sure by checking you out. I must know what you can take before discussing what you can give for the cause. If that’s okay, put down the glass and stand up for me, for your future.”

The luxurious sofa’s embrace impeded Zeb’s effort to spring to his feet, that and a certain wooziness – warm and good. Rev. Falconer stood like a rock – think Gibraltar – for the young man to visit. Massive, totally unlike Judge Clarence. This friendly stranger then embraced Zeb closely. Chin against slender neck, hands under and around muscled shoulder blades and stroking down upper arms, taking stock of other muscle groups.

“Hug me tight-like,” Zeb was told, “I seek more of your body, the sacred parts that must be offered with the full generosity of every young soul that needs this help before helping others.”

His stock-in-trade, pompous lines of bullshit, served Abe Falconer well. Certainly, in his colorful past, they had. Especially when uttered by his pulpit-powerful voice.

A hand in front, the other behind, went into Zeb’s pants to find, feel, and test the flex of neve-centered youthful treasures responding alacritously to their being summoned into cooperation by fingers as expert as any pianist’s. Open behind and already the recipient of one, then two knuckles, firm in front to the hand which clasped like a dairyman would a teat, only the lad’s scrotal contents – large, full – remained. Theirs was a time to come. Zeb’s frenzy of initiation reached its first heights with Falconer’s tongue circling the boy’s inexperienced one like a serpent.

Falconer felt Zeb’s shoulders hunch, his elbows pull in, his pelvis shake, his mouth trying to cope. Released suddenly, the boy sprawled back on the sofa, senses whirling. Eyes closed as his mind backed away from the edge of what almost happened, he felt his legs being separated.

“There. You just need a moment, Zeb. Drink the rest of your juice. Good boy. I’ll pull this belt out of our way and….”

His “counselor” was kneeling before him, opening his pants!

“…and get these down – bet the judge used to do this – and free you up. Lift your butt so I can get your shorts, too. That’s the way. You know how. Don’t be shy.” Shoe laces, shoes, and socks slowed the full emergence of Zeb’s waist-down lanky nakedness and its earthy scent. “Aha, now for the rest,” Falconer beamed as he lifted unprotesting Zeb to his feet and stripped off the outgrown cotton-knit shirt. Another whiff confirmed the need for one more appealing task.

“Let’s get your body laundered.”

The room blurred, the hall as well. Falconer’s all-white bathroom came into Zeb’s focus when he found himself propped against a tile wall and heard, “Hold on to that spigot up there.”

Water ran while, unseen, the event’s full-service host expunged from himself all clothing and stepped in the stall, picked up a bar of soap. He began lathering his hands. “Stay like that – all-stretched out – with your eyes closed. I’m going to do your front, son. Think of baptism’s first job – to purify your skin to make you ready for our next step, purifying your spirit.”

Not since childhood had any hands but his own traced unreasoning Zeb’s neck and Adam’s apple, his uplifted underarms, ticklish armpits, farmwork-strengthened chest and sides, his tensing stomach, hips and thighs, shins and ankles. Smooth…so smooth, he thought without immediately realizing whose the hands were that made him feel so good.

The cause dawned slowly when he was told, “Turn around and keep hold on that pipe. Got to take care of your back.” Suds were spread from neck to feet with sensuous efficiency but not rinsed away. “Lean your head back so I can shampoo your hair. Keep your eyes closed.”

Thus positioned, fingertips massaged his scalp with hypnotic rhythm. That those suds also were not rinsed belonged to the plan which had taken rapid, cunning form in Falconer’s mind. “I forgot some important parts, Zeb. Just keep still.” It was not the shampoo-laden hands surrounding his genitals that took the boy’s breath but what he felt sliding into place from behind.

I’m trapped …went around in his head with…Do they do this in Heaven?...and…He feels really big back there…and…I’m drunk…and…He likes my balls…and…What if I can’t take him?...and…Oooh, I’m going to die…and…My dick, what is he doing to it?...

Those thoughts circled back until Zeb felt himself caught up in a strange desire to let go, to skewer himself on what prodded between his legs. He even raised to his tip-toes to allow a better angle, wanting it.

Maybe.

Falconer nudged the hidden spot but met tight resistance. His palms and fingers continued plying sensitive balls and hardened cock. Over the sound of rapidly running water, he said, “You out of practice here?” – and pressed more firmly.

“Not since the judge. Nobody’s….”

“So you’re not being obstructive on purpose?

Zeb’s calf muscles were weakening. If he dropped to his heels, he might get hurt. Although woozy, he wasn’t crazy. He clutched his supporting pipe to sputter, “No, sir!”

“Better speak up, boy, or I might just barge past.”

“I’ll try.” In a last-ditch effort, Zeb bucked back, almost lost control of his grip, and started to cry.

Falconer, pulsing with desire, turned Zeb around, pulled him into an embrace, spoke harshly, “Stand! Let me rinse you, you sappy boy.” His hands flew all over Zeb as the shower’s streaming cascades swept sudsy lather into the floor’s drain. In the excitement of sudden contact with the large man’s hirsute body, Zeb’s balance threatened to go out of control but did not. His sex did. Thrust against the man’s body, it erupted in spasms.

This one’s a hot one!

Water off, Falconer reached for a large beach towel, nearly the size of his new prize, and began drying the both of them. Slight gestures of protest at the rough toweling were met with, “Fixing you up, Zeb. Take it like a man. You want to be a man, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir, but does it have to be so hard?”

“Hard? Boy, you don’t know the meaning of the word.” To himself, But you will.

Next Zeb knew, he was being sprawled for the second time that afternoon, not on the maroon sofa but on a bed with black sheets. He blinked. Opposite, between two windows their shades pulled, hung a mask. A red-faced demon with menacing horns, mouth open to reveal fangs and a long, slatheringly wet tongue. Leering evil itself: the Devil.

“I see you’ve noticed our enemy. He’s in you and we’re going to drive him out.”

Hands to his innocent face, Zeb curled to one side, “I’m not evil. I’m just eighteen. I haven’t done anything bad.”

“He’s watching. You ready to give it up? Will some more OJ help? You must be receptive.”

“Yes, please.” Zeb murmured, “I’m scared. But, if there’s devilment in me….

Not a word of the boy’s slurred continuation reached Falconer’s ears. Intent on making what was to come easier on his prey, he calculated a slight increase in proportion of vodka to juice, dropped in some crushed ice and a spoon of sugar, tasted the result, deemed it just-right, and headed back. His large man’s pride – one boy back in Pennsylvania (or was it in New Jersey?) had called it “a hammer-rammer” – swung lustily with each returning step.

There was Zeb on his back now, damp head on a pillow, fearlessly staring at the Devil and fingering his inches. The organ, no longer a boy’s but less than a man’s, throbbed in response. Zeb’s tipsy eyes drifted to the biggest pecker he had ever seen. They opened wider the closer Rev. Falconer came toward and loomed over him. He remembered the whopping thing’s touch from behind but had not seen it. He reached not for the proffered glass but to touch the already gleaming helmet-shaped, plum-colored helmet – as if to make sure it was not something the Devil had put in his head.

“Clutch, Zeb,” said the reassuring voice. “Squeeze. Discover my firmness. Think what it can do. It’s here for you and your salvation. First, though, drink some more of this,” he extended the sunny-looking beverage. Torn between novelty and the known, Zeb released the one and took the other.

Zeb’s elbows sat him higher. He drank without spilling a drop. Adam’s apple bouncing down and up like a two-story elevator in its shaft, he chugged about half, surrendered the glass, burped, faced his promised savior and, boldly if somewhat sibilantly, said, “Judge Clarence used to help me relax, you know, down there…with his mouth.” With a small, wry smile, he shut his eyes and waited, arms turned outward as if penitent.

It crossed Falconer’s mind to act before the boy might fall asleep. Act he did. A glance at the Devil’s tongue sufficed to inspire. I’ll show him some torment he won’t forget.

The bed took the press of its owner’s weight in places where knees and hands supported the kneeling man’s head above his target, Zeb’s most delicate attributes, his tender testicles. For a more advantageous avenue of approach, he moved Zeb’s heels along the sheet out and up to angle his knees sharply. Like a frog.Unimpeded, Falconer bent to the fresh-washed orbs hanging as double temptations. His nose provoked before his tongue stroked their sac.

Twitches and sighs rewarded him. He opened his mouth and scooped from underneath with his tongue one orb to suck. Zeb’s whole body lurched. He released it and sucked in the other to a howl of appreciation and one very still, wary young man.

This possibility never occurred to him.

Falconer let go, paused to build suspense, opened wide, slowly slurped in both, rolled them about, and gently closed his lips to tug bag and contents away from his trembling subject. His nose found the bulging underside of Zeb’s erection and nuzzled it maddeningly.

That new torment proved too much for Zeb. Even alcoholically tranquilized, he could not bear the sensation. Reflexes kicked in. His hands darted toward his cock but were intercepted and held back. Falconer continued his pull on the now tightened mouthful. Employing his agile tongue, he tormented and tortured near-epileptic Zeb to his second-ever, touch-free orgasm.

The spasms sent ejaculate arcing twice to the headboard, thence to Zeb’s brow, chin, neck, and stomach – aftershocks after a body-quake. Completely released, the boy was exhausted – chest heaving, cock dribbling, body shaking.

The reverend surveyed his work with satisfaction.

What a spectacle. Too bad no one else was here to see it.

Unaware of being surveyed, Zeb maneuvered himself like a lazy cat – this way and that, gradually twisting to his stomach so the bed would blot his body’s stray jism and to rub it from his face into the pillowcase. He hadn’t wanted to touch any of it.

Mental fogginess blended with embers of red-hot emotions and physical fatigue. Zeb felt so relaxed he began to drift off.

Falconer took the cue and slipped away to make a call. Tony Ragliotti answered, heard the question, thought for a second, said he “didn’t know,” and provided Sheriff Rick’s number. In turn, Rick, who also “didn’t know” – he added – “any details,” gave him Thomas B.’s number. Thomas answered on the fourth ring and listened to the hushed voice recounting events so far with young Zeb.

“Damn, that must’ve been a-mazing.” His thoughts leapt fast as his ears pricked up at the rapid account of very recent events and the inquiry being made. “Oh man, I’ll have to pull out of this traffic for that. Hang on, I see Pearl’s station up ahead. Just hang on. Hang on, y’hear?”

“I’m safe now. What Judge Clarence did back in my day was different from what he was doing in the last year or so before he kicked off and crapped up the system in Alexia. But I think he always started with a blow job or two before he got to a boy’s ass. Uh, not on the same day. If you had time, I’d put you in touch with my nephew Gerald Jr. and his roommate, Jory Beau. They could really tell you, and probably would – even like to.”

“I have your friend Jeb’s Zeb to screw, so no time. Kid’s tight as a tom-tom. How big was the judge?”

“About six or six-and-a-half inches. Just right, after some fingering in most cases. Why?”

“Hell, I’ve got way more than that. Zeb’s dozing in the other room, butt up and mellowed out.”

“Didn’t you say you got in there with a finger when you had him standing up?”

“Actually, two – only up to the knuckle. Not really in, if you know what I mean. I don’t think he had time to shut me out.”

“You also told me you Frenched him when that was happening, didn’t you?”

“Big response, yes. Balls only. He was really caught up in it.”

“Or by it. I think the kid’s a got lover-potential in him that the judge didn’t do much for. Go in there and romance the devil out of him before he falls asleep. Mouth and fingers in conjunction ought to do it. Uh-oh, Pearl’s headed my way. I’d better get some gas.”

Falconer’s thanks went almost unheard as a distant woman’s voice called, “This ain’t a parking lot. You gonna buy something?

*

At rustling sounds from the drawer of the bedside table he couldn’t see, Zeb cracked an eye. He’s back. He’s….

Falconer spotted the slight movement. He covered the middle finger of his left hand with Vaseline before lying down next to Zeb and pulling him close, right arm under the boy’s neck. Lips next to Zeb’s exposed ear, he said, “Roll on your side so I can snuggle some and warm you right here.”

The lubed finger found the desired place. A tickle. A bit of a circle. Not more, for there was a lobe to be nibbled and soft words to murmur. Simultaneously, while aligning their two bodies and rubbing Zeb’s chest, a barely perceptible patting was begun behind him. Falconer’s finger did the patting. Just there, where it would do the most good.

Not fully recovered but aware sufficiently to realize the reverend’s intention, the farm boy soaked up being told, “You responded well before and learned something, I know. Your friend the judge discovered your nature, that’s for sure. But did he treat you like this?” – teeth nipped Zeb’s neck, a nipple caressed. “Are you beginning to feel the love you have to give? Shh… Just press back on my finger. That’s the way. Take little more. So, so sweet that way.”

With his thrust all the way in, Falconer pulled up over the slightly turned head and kissed it fully on the lips, stifling protest with searching tongue and urgent, guttural sounds. The lingering taste of chocolate blended with that of orange juice. Hooked in two places, Zeb spasmodically clasped the hand holding his chest and reached with his other for his aggressor’s wrist. Falconer pulled out and away. His enormity, hot and greased, was what the boy found to grip and attempt to push away.

“Thank you,” Falconer’s resonant voice declared. “Keep doing that. Shows how much you want it.” He moved directly into the friction of farm-calloused fingers. “You make me want to help you, young friend.” He kissed Zeb again. His enjoyment of the surprise he had caused was tangible. He masturbated himself in the boy’s hand for the few seconds it took to register with Zeb.

Kid’s trying to cope.

“I know you’re anxious, but” – he retracted himself and pushed the hand off – “your need cannot be satisfied until you welcome my finger. Really let it in. There it goes. Easy, so easy now. Feel it turning. It’s massaging away your inhibition.”

Consternation faded. He’s right. Now it’s like when I was with Judge Clarence. MMM…He goes way in…That’s nice, too…Judge Clarence used to do that – then move around.

The alluring sensations ceased when the finger was replaced by something rounder and smoother – and bigger. It’s not his cock. Oh, one of those plug things. The judge….

Slippage into place and the sight of the tender anus closing around the wide part spurred Falconer’s lust. “You’ve had one of these before, I think?”

“Uh-huh. It’s a plug. The judge had one or two.”

“This one’s bright red, like the Devil.”

“He ain’t bothering me now. Does it look good?”

Why the little…

His thought was interrupted by Zeb’s obvious contractions and titillating assertion, “I can take the next size.”

Carefully, the small size was replaced by another and, minutes later, a dildo of some breadth before the dilated area experienced discomfort. Zeb heard assurances that he “on the right track” before he felt a change. A wonderful change. The dildo, in fact, was a vibrator. Nine inches long. Falconer had switched it on and was slowly moving it through Zeb’s opening. Not far, but back and forth, dribbling a more-liquid lube onto it with each extraction. It slid efficiently and brought sighs of relief, Zeb taking it further and further until it touched his turning point inside. At that, he grunted.

With a speed increase, the vibrations wrought noises of approval and automatic responses from Zeb’s pelvis. He’s fucking himself on it. We’re getting there. Falconer’s attention to the job cost him the notice of Zeb playing with himself, now erect. He was harsh, “Stop that!” – and, like a recent Pope, slapped the offending hand. “That’s the Devil taking over! You let him deprive you of where I’m taking you and I’ll send you home so fast your head will spin.”

That chastened the boy. In embarrassment, he attempted to roll from the embrace but Falconer seized and turned him roughly onto his back, hoisted his legs – demanding, “Hold ’em! – pushed the vibrator as far as it would go, and took Zeb’s saliva-wet scrotum in hand. “Do anything like that again and I’ll squeeze the Devil out through these.”

Such fury panicked the simple farm boy. To jerk himself while the judge was straightening him out had always been okay. It was part of getting the “treatment,” so good after being blown because the subsequent fuck always brought another chance to come.

What’s wrong with this guy? Tormented Zeb looked over his nervous stomach to the hand threatening his balls.

“I’m sorry.”

Falconer’s angry face faded. His hands returned to plying the reddened hole of the now-completely-exposed teen’s naked roundness. With mercy, he added more lube, and imagined how he would make the available ass his – soon. Sense vanquished irrationality as an idea struck how to transform the awkward situation.

He moved the vibrator’s setting up to its highest notch and, remembering Jeb’s mention of certain hymns, smiled a smile not unlike that on the Devil-mask, and started to hum the familiar tune, “I Will Make You Fishers of Men.” It worked on the boy’s church-conscious mind. Zeb relaxed into the peaceful music. His ass adjusted.

“Son, you can finish your juice now.” The instruction was said kindly.

A grateful Zeb did just that. It cooled him while finishing touches were made to his bottom.

*

The moment of Truth had arrived. With legs aloft, this time in Falconer’s strong hands, and the man’s “hammer-rammer” straining for conquest, euphoric Zeb listened to, “This is your time, Zeb. Your time to take into yourself and to collect the offering of my flesh. Use your hands. Place me where you know I am meant to go.”

Fingers hesitant, Zeb managed to encircle the fat head. He felt the flared rim – later he would learn the word corona – and looked straight into eyes and cheeks that radiated promise.

“Good. It’s the greatest friend you’ll ever have. It and I will unlock you. You’ve the key.

Together, we’ll open for you a whole new world. Yes, like that. I’ll work just through your portal…. I know. I see it on your face – the ache of surrender. Take another breath, real deep now. Think of the Prophet Ezekial knocking at your gate. Don’t turn him away. Open and – yes! – I’m in.”

The last word, “in,” rewarded the boy who knew it was a reward but who wanted to cry out. He bit his lip, blinked and shut his eyes against the pain, and sensed that the reverend – who then made no other move – cared about him. It hurt when what widened him so awesomely began shifting in tiny increments. He heard, “I’m a minister, Zeb, and I’m ministering to you in this moment. You need me to massage this part until it can be coaxed from the Devil’s grasp. Relax, my young acolyte – for that is what you are to be – yes, look at me – to be my follower in great work ahead.”

Flattery had charm. Mention of the future, as well. The teen’s status confirmed, his mind relieved about his career, Zeb had to cope. Yes…he…did. The stinging hurt of being opened so far began to wane. The hugeness stroked to and fro only an inch or thereabouts. Zeb dared to open his eyes and to try a smile. There was that beatific face looking into his.

“Zeb, I’m ready for you to bring me forward. Reach down for what you find hanging there and use it to show me how much you want from me. There…is…no hurry.”

The last of the orange juice was intensifying the boy’s glow. He felt for and cradled in his fingers two very warm, hen-egg sized, coarse-haired orbs, aware for the first time how impressive they were. His gesture called forth what, subsequently, he would learn to call the shoulders of Falconer’s penis: about two inches worth in length that dilated him less painfully now that his entryway’s muscles had taken the head’s massages. Irresistible sensuality, at being made to quiver so heavenly, beckoned for more; minutes later, more.

Although stretched beyond anything in its life (since Judge Clarence had overseen its official opening), Zeb’s interior had no problem which could not be solved by the sturdiest of giant probes working its very well-lubed walls. The next inch and the one after, however, snagged and challenged his inner sphincter. The boy gasped. He fought for air to allay the pain.

“Dear boy, it’s your first time with my messenger. It’s as if your door hinges are rusty. That you cannot open, doesn’t mean that you aren’t home. Think, I’m oiling those neglected hinges. Let me deliver my important message. You’ll collect a great deal from it. Please.”

The solicitation’s sincerity melted the pinioned boy’s reserve and boosted his trust. That trust gave way to thrusts. Portion by portion, Falconer’s shafting shifted from its starting point against the barrier out to the shoulder-wide extremity and, in measured stages, swept back and forth to claim all but the last fraction. Sweat break out on brow, face, neck, and torso as Zeb’s furrow was plowed steadily, thoroughly, ferociously, gloriously. He felt himself being liquefied, then to be allowed, by a lessening of force, to gel. His new substance, Falconer knew, had not come together yet. There was more to do for this remarkable boy.

He’ll take it all; if not this day, another. Let’s see.

He drew almost out. Regarded Zeb’s flushed features. Took stock of their splendid connection. Drooled on more lube. Reinserted. Pressed knees against armpits to raise the receptor higher. Repositioned himself and nosedived into seething tissues and hysterical muscles, rebounding just in time to prevent catastrophe. Time froze but not the heat. It rose. Falconer grappled for a small vial of inhalant.

With me, he’s got to go over-the-top my way, not his.

“Zeb, if you can hear me, take a whiff of this. Each nostril. I’ll hold it for you. Inhale. Yes, and here. Inhale. Your arterial walls will relax. Your mucosal blood flow will increase Everything about you will want to grant me your prize. Here, again, please. Each nostril.”

Tossing the amyl nitrate container aside, he saw Zeb’s whole countenance acquire a satyr-like, depraved leer. This is it! His final two inches engaged the internal sphincter, sampled its resilience and elasticity, pierced through effortlessly and relished its flutters.

Falconer’s excitement built toward climax. Ratcheting back for the final onslaught, he aimed to stroke the boy’s prostate on his rides down eight inches, and up and back and up and – finally – back with all nine to flood that deepest passage with his most copious discharge in months.

His crisis provoked from Zeb an orgasm that shattered what remained of his consciousness. Coupled, they sank into a lava-like heap. And began to cool.

Neither felt consciousness. Intermittent quivers and tremors of Zeb’s drenched body kept Falconer embedded and hard. Even he, with so many years of experience in the past, involuntarily continued to respond as if there were more to expel.

Their spent state passed as clouds do the Moon. Zeb stirred. Falconer moved enough to slip out, an apparent loss to the boy.

“Where are you going?” was the mutter.

Falconer gained enough awareness to assess the mess which coated his slumping penis. No blood. Good, but next time I’ll purge him first. Yuck.He jiggled Zeb’s shoulder, whispering, “Rouse yourself. It’s clean up time.”

The reaction: an untangling stretch of limbs and neck, a yawn, some freely drawn breaths. Zeb came to with the throaty question, “You want me to be your acolyte?” Asking it aloud made it seem true. He wanted affirmation.

A hand busy with absorbent tissues to the boy’s leakiness, Falconer was unsure how to answer. He decided to pay no mind to the surprise question and its odd tone. “Have you any idea what we accomplished?” He used another tissue on himself.

The new-found satyr’s voice startled him, “Yeah you fucked the come out of me and I didn’t even touch myself. That’s three times, sir. I never did that before.” The real Zeb was emerging from the creature of myth he had become. His “sir” and personal admission confirmed his return.

*

Freshly showered, clad again, reassured about regular visits “for Rapture training,” accompanied to his dad’s pickup, and sent on his way, Zeb began whistling “I Will Make You Fishers of Men.”

I know what it means now.

Traffic in Capital City stymied any intent to reach the highway quickly. Many drivers were trying to make it to their homes near the end of rush hour.

Proud of himself, if slightly throbby “down there,” our teen driver was not worried over being an hour or more late for supper. The reverend had alerted his dad. Attentive to the dodgy maneuvers of nervous drivers, Zeb sobered. Occasionally, in a clear patch of road, his mind drifted to the instruction not to masturbate. It dawned on him that the thought made him clammy.

*

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